two bells
by selfsame
Summary: Fred&George: George waits for Fred in a pub and does a bit of thinking. comments would be lovely.


around 1315 words.

contains: fred&george.

comments cherished.

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**two**** bells**

by

selfsame.

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the thing about Fred is that he never shows up when he says he will; the thing about people, especially in crowds, is that whenever you're sitting restlessly in a corner waiting for someone in particular to show up, everyone _else_ seems happy and careless in a way that rubs it right in.

Fred's the sort of person who will keep you waiting accidentally on purpose. he'll make you sit there and pretend to be having a good time while you wait for him, when really you'll nervous that he won't show up at all: when really you're feeling awkward and lonely and a bit pissed off, because you like people and you like it when they're happy, but you can't join in their happiness because you have to sit there at the end of the bar and sip your butterbeer and _wait_. he makes you wait because he wants to see the look on your face when he finally does show— he wants to soak in your reaction to his arrival. it makes him feel appreciated.

and Fred's the sort of person who picks places like this to meet, because he takes a funny pleasure in watching people skipping their ways around tables and booths, in spying on jealous lovers who are in the meantime spying on their loved ones, in watching middle-aged men with too-young girls on their knees and drunks sloshing ale down the front of their jackets all in the same room.

the witch who keeps refilling your butterbeer, snapping her fingers and watching out of the corner of her eye as the pitcher lifts itself off the counter and pours neatly into your mug— she's somebody Fred would like to watch. she's a harried woman with dark circles beneath her eyes and makeup that seems to be leaking down into her collarbone from the crannies in her face, her lips drawn so tightly that it looks like she's trying desperately to keep something in her mouth from bursting out unexpectedly.

when you've been there for half an hour you start thinking about getting up and leaving and letting Fred stroll in to find that you've already gone, but still you stay put and push your hood back a little from your face, even though the smoke from the other side of the bar is wafting over toward your nose.

"awfully late, isn't she, dearie?" the witch finally throws your way, trying to make you feel better, even as she refills your butterbeer for the fifth time.

"yeah," you answer back ruefully, trying to thank her with a half-hearted smile. he'll appear, sooner or later, and so you won't give in, you'll wait just a little bit longer, even if the younger witches and wizards start leaving and they get replaced by cloaked strangers and suspicious-looking men in their late fifties with their hoods hiding all but their eyes.

"if she doesn't show by two, your beers'll be on the house," the witch tells you then, patting the back of your hand sympathetically before turning and rushing to serve a group of men in unfamiliar coal-grey robes.

you look up at the ancient grandfather clock behind the bar.

one-thirty or so.

it's times like these when you almost want to thank Fred for being late, but six or seven free butterbeers might not be worth his absence.

while you're waiting (either for Fred to sit down next to you or for that clanking old clock to chime two bells, whichever comes first) your mind starts wandering and your hood droops forward again, almost touching your nose without catching your attention. you think about how many times you've waited on this exact stool for Fred to join you, after classes or late at night when you've snuck out of Hogwarts for laughs— you think about the time you almost got in a scuffle with a rotund, red-faced wizard because he thought the two of you were mouthing off at him, not more than four paces from where you're sitting now. you think about what Mum would say if she knew the two of you spent so much time at dodgy places like these, what Percy would say, what Ginny would say, even if she'd only scowl at you for not bringing her along on your adventures, for constantly leaving her out of activities that are too old for her.

the time seems to be going by too slowly, and the whole tavern seems clogged up somehow, the air replaced by a layer of honey through which everyone has to crawl. the laughing and jeering and shouting seem distant— it all sounds fogged, dream-like, akin to the cheering and screaming from the stands when you and Fred fly through the air on your brooms, trying to catch up to the ball and smack it out of the way before it slams one of you in the face.

someone next to you stands up violently; their stool rattles and taps the leg of yours for a moment, but you steady yourself, insensitive to interruptions.

it's five minutes to two o'clock.

you think about the way Fred's hair whips his face while he shoots through the air beside you; then you think about the way his hair droops lankly against his cheekbone when he falls asleep prematurely (instead of waiting up with you like he promised while you finish your homework).  you think about the way the cuffs of Fred's pajama shirt always fall just a little further down his wrists than yours do even though_ your _shirt is the exact same size.  you think about the time Mum took you and Fred to the Muggle department store to get jeans before sixth year started— you think about the fact that your pair is still in perfect condition, while Fred's jeans, having seen the same amount of wear, have two small holes (one slightly larger than the other) on the hip of the right side, just near the seam. even Fred doesn't know how they got there but they're the perfect size for your index and middle fingers to fit through.

the room is so thick with smoke and noise that when the old clock suddenly wheezes out two slow peals in succession, you nearly bet you're imagining it and you don't even think to look back towards the door.

fortunately the witch heard them too, and she reappears suddenly on the other side of the bar from you, a dirty rag in her hand, straggly black hair hiding half her face but revealing half her smile. it's a smile as though to say she wishes she hadn't promised you a free check but she still feels sorry enough for you to give it to you.

"that's two bells, dear, you're in luck tonight," she informs you, changing the rag to her other hand and patting the back of yours again.

"lucky me," you decide to joke vaguely, giving her back a bit of her grin before she floats off once more.

a hand comes down on your left shoulder unexpectedly, and since you hate being surprised like that you've got a mind to draw your wand— but when you glance to the side, trying to slow your heart down, you see Fred dropping down onto the stool next to yours, and you give up, letting your heart speed up again. "and why are you so lucky?" he teases you as a greeting, reaching for your (complimentary) butterbeer to take a sip from it. it stains his pale lips and temporarily flecks his skin like the freckles over his nose, until he reaches up a hand and wipes the droplets away.

his hair is a bit mussed up, his hood down— beneath his robes he's pushed up his sleeves and you notice before taking back your butterbeer that he's wearing his Muggle department store jeans.

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**end**.


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